OK, it's official. I am the self-styled meanest lodgmeistering ogre that SF has ever had the misfortune to employ. Let me tell you, cathartically, about it.



It was like this. This morning, after having suffered great consternation at hearing the 'wrong' voice on Radio 4 at 6.30am, having overlooked the fact that the NUJ are on strike and therefore causing the whole of the working nation to imagine that something had gone horribly and horologically wrong, I did what I always do: make myself a cup of coffee, wake up the boys with a cheery 'Good morning' (!) and then go down to the Clubhouse to await the members of the lodge as they prepare to depart, having watched the news.



I turned on the telly. No witty banter from Sian and Bill, no sporting mischief from my wife's hearthrob, Chris Hollins (whom, incidentally, I persuaded to send her a signed photo for her landmark birthday) and no lovely lilt from the lovely Carol Kirkwood. No money markets report from the bespectacled Simon Jack: just boring old News 24, which was about as dry as a Newtonian's towel.



I flicked over to a programme called 'Daybreak', hosted by poached presenters from the One Show. Tosh. No thanks. I turned back.



A rezzie appraoched me.



"Sir, as it's November 5th, could we have fireworks tonight?"



"No."



"Can't you give us just one rocket?"



"H'm. So you want me to give you a rocket tonight, is that right?"



"Yes, sir."



I agreed that I would. Well, you can imagine the rest. I knew what was going to happen: they didn't.



I sat down at supper, next to my requestee, who looked at me with the excitement of one who's about to open his Christmas presents, with big, wide eyes.



"So are you really going to give us a rocket tonight, sir?!"



"Oh yes."



So I (sort of) did. I gathered the members of the dorm together, and I rebuked them for talking after lights out. I then ensured that this could be considered as part of their education, and explained what 'giving someone a rocket' could mean. They looked dreadfully hurt, not least the aforementioned requestee.



I don't think they'll speak to me for a week. Actually, being the lovely people they are, they already are doing, so all seems to be well.



As for the fireworks, well, they've got their rockets: there's the most amazing display going on as I write, and they're all out of bed, watching, wide-eyed from behind the curtains.



As for Isla, she's petrified: and being comforted by Mrs C.



Goodnight from Mr Mean.



PS As for the illegal sweets bust, well, we'll say no more about that.